


Ginger

by spensierata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: -but not really dont worry, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 17:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13575792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spensierata/pseuds/spensierata
Summary: Jackson's life via his imaginary friend





	Ginger

 You’re three years old and you’re a little miracle. The pride and joy and apple of your parent's eye. So, so cute, pouty lips and big green puppy dog eyes with which you observe the world around you with slack-jawed awe. You study your picture books intently and turn every page with care, you poke at spider webs to make them dance, you put your chubby hands up to the screen when you first watch the moon landing. Smart for your age, your kindergarten teachers say, you can babble on for hours on end, your favourite word is Roswell. You have an imaginary friend, they say, it’s adorable, really. They think their son will be an artist someday, or a doctor, president, something truly special. They proudly pin the pictures to the fridge, Mommy, Daddy, Jackson, and sometimes a woman with ginger hair.

You’re eight when you first remember, but maybe you never really forgot. Your best friend’s name is William, a punchline to a set up you won’t hear for a decade. He’s rough and tumble and loud and everything you’re not. You roll down hills and jump on beds, knock on neighbours’ doors and run away cackling and alive. But when you try to kiss him on a whim he breaks your reading glasses. That’s when you see her, her soft, tired features, long red hair, the gold at her throat. Her smile is as familiar as looking in the mirror. She must be your angel, for she feels like candlelight. When you pack up and move to Washington before the year is out, Ginger follows you home.

You’re eleven and you’re a little shit. You stretch your parent’s patience thin, you stay up long past bedtime and scare the local kids with horror stories, killer cockroaches and killer cats, sea monsters and serial killers. Ginger is your inspiration, the starring role in your craziest dreams. When you christen her the ghost of your dead mother, that’s the final straw. Your notebook turns to ashes in the fireplace, your lungs burn as you scream. _I hate you._  You throw it in their face like a slap _. You’re not even my real parents_.

You feel her in the park after the warmth fades along with the light. You know it’s her by the way your mind clears, by the calm that fills your veins. _Why didn’t you keep me?_ You wonder out loud, as your sobs subside to hiccups; as if she could reply.

You’re going on fourteen and you’re too old for an imaginary friend. When the pills they give you to stop the seizures stop you seeing red, you start to slip them under your tongue and hide your soul under your mattress. The kids at school keep you at arms distance, you have a nice enough swing and a nice enough face that they keep their real feelings behind your back. They think you’re weird and spooky, you’re starting to think they might be right. Your parents ask if it’s okay to go out of town, maybe they’re hoping you’ll be a teenager and come back to ruins and red solo cups. Your friends forget your birthday. When you stick a candle on a cupcake, Ginger is there as you blow it out. You wonder if she knows what day it is. You think you hear her sing.

You’re fifteen and you want to stop the world and to get the fuck off. You don’t wanna be the kid that does it for attention, but when you turn your gym teacher into a spider monster and traumatise your baseball team, you begin to attract attention. Your hands shake as you dissect your pencil sharpener. Your whole body is shaking and your whole world goes black. That’s when you see her, fully, you see her try to save the world. You see blood and smoke and a blinding blue light and brilliant blue eyes. You’re still shaking when the fits finally stop. You shove it in a shoebox, under your bed, to the back of your mind.

You’re seventeen and you’re probably overcompensating. Two girlfriends, two mothers, two blood types. Too many voices setting up camp in your head. When your life abruptly ends, you’re almost relieved. It hasn’t really kicked in that your parents are dead, you’re too busy learning that body bags aren’t breathable. The metal slab is hard and cold and it takes every ounce of willpower not to fucking cry. Corpses don’t cry. Not even when she starts to speak. Her voice is deeper than you imagined, it’s hoarse and heavy, every word that falls from your mouth burrows deep inside your heart. Suddenly not breathing isn’t such a challenge. She’s not just Ginger, she’s fire and flesh and blood. She’s beautiful, kind and sad. She’s yours. She’s Mother and she loved you, loves you.

You echo her words in the form of a promise, but you know the truth. You’ve known her your whole life.

 

 

 


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